


difficult conversations

by zhuzhubi



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Drug Addiction, F/M, Past Drug Use, References to Depression, Relapse, almost, or gendered, reader/oc isnt named
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:27:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25644265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhuzhubi/pseuds/zhuzhubi
Summary: There isn’t always a reason, sometimes we just feel bad - and that’s okay...(or, reader helps reid with a near-relapse)
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Original Character(s), Spencer Reid/Reader
Kudos: 55





	difficult conversations

**Author's Note:**

> also on tumblr @zhuzhubii
> 
> if by chance anyone here is also reading any of my series - they are not abandoned! im just slow, lol

As soon as he gets home you can tell something is wrong - he has one hand buried in his coat pocket, and the other is visibly shaking. He jumps when he sees you and won’t meet your eyes, even as you step closer to him.

He says, “I thought you were out with Jada,” and you think he meant it as an accusation, but his voice is too unsteady for it to come across that way.

You’re starting to worry now, taking note of how he keeps glancing behind you as if he wants to escape deeper into the apartment, “she thinks she has the flu - I texted you that she cancelled, remember?”

His brow furrows as if he’s confused by this, and it makes yours furrow too - it’s unlike him to forget to check his phone, despite how much he dislikes technology, due to his job. He pauses a little too long before responding, “oh, um - my cell signal was spotty on the metro, and uhm…I was just in a bit of a rush to get home, so I must’ve missed it.”

You take a breath, bracing yourself for what will inevitably be a defensive response, “Spencer, what’s going on?”

He replies far too quickly, still avoiding your eyes, “Nothing, nothing’s going on. I just…was surprised to see you, I guess, I was expecting to be alone for a few hours.”

It’s obviously a lie, you don’t need to be a profiler to see that. It’s then that you notice he still hasn’t removed his coat, hasn’t taken his hand out of his pocket. You think you know what this is.

“Spencer, if you really want to do this, you know that I can’t stop you. But I don’t think you do, so I want you to talk to me about what’s going on in your head right now,” you say, making sure to keep the anxiety out of our voice - he needs you to be calm right now.

He responds how you knew he would, at least at first. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says to the floor.

You reach a hand for the one he still has buried in his pocket, so slowly he doesn’t notice. He jolts, but doesn’t pull away. Instead, he completely freezes for a few seconds - as if he wants to let you help, but has to convince his body to let him. Then, he lifts his hand tentatively, keeping a tight fist around whatever he’s holding. 

You close both of your palms around his fist, giving him a chance to let go without having to look. After a tense moment he does, and you feel a little glass thing fall into your hands - such a tiny thing that has so much power over him. 

You take it to the kitchen and dump it out, making sure to keep track of him out of the corner of your eyes. He slumps down on the couch, pulling the afghan from the back and wrapping it around his shoulders. Once you’ve finished, you sit next to him and wait for him to speak - he will eventually.

He takes a few rattling deep breaths and you know he’s almost ready. When he does speak, he stares straight down at the coffee table, “nothing bad even happened today. We didn’t even have a case this week, nothing’s been stressing me out. There’s no _reason_ for me to be feeling like this.”

You sigh and reach for him, pulling him to rest against you, and soothe fingers through his hair, “There isn’t always a reason, sometimes we just feel bad - and that’s okay. You know who told me that?”

He nestles further into you, but doesn’t answer. He knows where you’re going with this.

“Spencer?” you prompt softly, moving to stroke his back.

It takes him a minute, but he eventually replies, “I did.”

“Why?” 

“It’s not the same,” he shoots bad, shaking his head from where it rests on your neck.

You decided to shift angles, if only momentarily. “Do you like feeling like this?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

He squints up at you, letting out an intelligent, “huh?”

You repeat, “do you _like_ feeling like this?”

“No! Of course I don’t _like_ feeling this way,” he springs up, throwing the afghan off of himself and starting to pace around the living room, “You know what I was thinking earlier? Still am, if I’m being really honest here. I was thinking about how I almost lost my job, my _friends_ over this. 

And then, once I met with a dealer and got my hands on some, I didn’t _care_. I was ready to throw all of that away, to throw _us_ away over the stupid _fucking_ drug that I just can’t stop thinking about.”

You just let him rant without trying to interrupt because he needs to get it out.

“I did this to myself, that’s why it’s not the same. Yeah, maybe Tobias was the one who injected me the first couple of times. But it wasn’t enough for me to be physically addicted - I didn’t have to keep taking it, I could’ve just put it to rest right there before it even started. But I didn’t. I didn’t. Instead, I compromised a crime scene - I stole drugs off of his fucking _corpse_. 

Then, once we got back to DC, I walked myself into the nearest needle exchange, picked up my stuff, then came home and spent the next two weeks outta my mind on drugs. And when I went back to work, I was high a lot of the time then, too. Do you know how fucking dangerous that was!? I could have gotten somebody _killed_. I could have killed _myself_ by accident, who would’ve taken care of my mom if I’d - “ 

His knees buckle and he drops to the floor before you can get to him. You kneel next to him and pull him to yourself again, soothing him as he cries, half-stifled sobs wracking through his slight frame. 

Once he’s calmed a little, you say, “When I’m having a depressive episode, I feel the same way. Or, similarly at least. Like everything is my fault, and I’m bad for my friends, and I might as well throw everything away because nothing matters. And I’ve done things during those times that I wish I could take back - I’ve been mean to everyone around me. I’ve shut them out and refused to let them help. I know that, and I’m not proud of it. 

It’s healthy to take accountability for your actions, to acknowledge that using was dangerous for everyone in your life, and that during that time of your life, you did things you’re not proud of. But you know what _isn’t_ healthy?”

You give him a moment to think about it, and when he leans into you and hums, “mmhm,” you continue, just to make sure, “It’s not healthy to keep beating yourself up about it. Or to dwell on the things that might have been. I asked you if you like feeling this way, and you said you don’t, right?”

He nods ever so slightly, his hair tickling your chin.

“That’s how it’s the same. This battle is in your head. That doesn’t mean it’s not real - it’s _very_ real, that’s plain to see. What it does mean, though, is that you’re not fighting physical dependence anymore. It means that addiction is a mental illness, and sometimes it’ll hit you out of nowhere like this. That’s not something to be ashamed of. Do you understand?”

His reply is scarcely more than an exhale, a short “yeah” so soft you almost miss it. But it’s there, and that’s good enough for now. You place a gentle kiss on the crown of his head and mutter, “okay. Now, can you tell me what you need right now, or do you want me to help you decide?”

“Can we go to bed?” he requests, and you can hear the exhaustion in his voice.

“Of course,” you reply, giving him a moment before helping him stand, “Do you wanna change first? It’s ok if you don’t want to.”

“I wanna change,” he says, leaning on you as you walk towards the bedroom.

“Okay,” you say, guiding him to sit on the bed as you pick out a set of pajamas for him. He puts them on in a bit of a daze as you change, too, then allows you to help him get under the covers. He doesn’t sleep right away, you can tell, but it seems like lying here with you is helping him stay calm, so that’s good at least. 

You’ll have to talk more in the morning, about modifying his relapse prevention plan so that a close call like this can hopefully be avoided in the future, but just existing with him is enough for now.


End file.
